Case Carnage
by lovelynobody00
Summary: An onslaught of zombies in London prove tough for Sherlock and John as they try and catch the cause of it and get out alive. Survival is key if the truth about the infection is to be found. Johnlock included.
1. Bathroom Antics

"John," he called "wake up, you're past the limit."

Sherlock sat against the bathroom door across from his KO'd flat mate, nervous. The door was barricaded by the tub (which had taken a great effort to move without help) and a bag complete with clothing and supplies nestled itself under John's head while Sherlocks' lay undone. Clothing had been impatiently tossed out in search for the first-aid box. The first-aid lay next to John, open and messy from long fingers pushing undesired medicines out of the way for bandages.

Standing up, Sherlock moved to inspect his partner's head wound. There was quite a bump on the doctor's frontal and he had made sure to give it a fixing but now Sherlock was worried with the perimeter of time his mate was taking up sleeping. The scratching and moaning at the door had been constant and unsettling since the consulting detective had dragged John into the bathroom. It wasn't safe to stay in their position for much too long. Sherlock knew the door wouldn't last.

After a moment of no response, Sherlock pursed his lips, moved closer and gently shook John by the shoulder. "This isn't the time to be passed out in the bathroom, John."

The poor doctor stirred for a moment before opening his eyes. The light was intense to his corneas and he grimaced with pain. Sherlock quickly flipped the light off. "Sorry, light sensitivity." He said, sitting against the bathroom sink. John groaned, sitting up with a sore head.

"What happened?"

"The telly fell on your head."

John lightly touched the bump and winced. "That's what I get for putting it on top of a bloody pile of wobbly furniture." He grimaced, recalling the barricade that they built infront of the front door.

The whole morning had not been good. He remembered waking up to screams in the street. Public carnage swept over London. Sherlock watched from the window with a pair of binoculars while John watched the television, both of them itching for information. So far, they had been told not to leave their home and to barricade until help arrived, which cued a scoff from Sherlock. If the consulting detective didn't agree with this, John wasn't sure of what to do now. A suspicious sort of infection had spread so vastly, they barley had enough time to prepare.

"Sherlock don't wear that!" he nagged while slipping his jacket on.

Sherlock inspected his long dark coat. "Why not?"

"I saw one of those zombies snatch a woman by her hair," John explained. The time he'd taken to looking out the window had been a gory one. The girl being chased by a zombie had had very long hair. It didn't take long for the zombie to grab and yank her by the hair. The rest of the scene was gruesomely spent on the monster eating the poor girl, "You're coat could be the end of you."

Sherlock nearly pouted. "They won't catch me." he tried to assure the flat-mate while throwing bottled water into the bag.

"A lot of them are fast, Sherlock. I won't have you being killed because of a coat," he persisted. He hurried to the closet and pulled out a large desert camo jacket. "Here," he tossed it to Sherlock. "It was mine in Afghanistan. It's lighter and will keep you warm."

Sherlock scrutinized it, stubborn to keep his own clothing. After a moment, he nodded and slipped off his own to put on Johns'. It wasn't too small for Sherlock's slender figure. The coat still had the scent of desert and smoke on it. Sherlock studied the bullet hole that had torn itself at the shoulder and looked back at John. "I'll stitch that up for you later." John said apologetically.

"Thank you." he said and John, happy with his completed goal, walked off to his room.

John searched his room for his old dog tags and slipped them on for sentimental reasons. Then, he pulled on his old combat boots from the war and replaced his jumper with light gray shirt. He'd need to be light on his feet and have sturdy footwear for running. John was nervous for that segment and tightened the boot laces.

John walked down the stairs to find Sherlock stock-still with an expression of powerful curiosity and slight alarm. The doctor froze in response to Sherlock lifting his hand at him. "What is it?"

Sherlock quickly hushed him with a finger to the lips. He was staring intently at the front door. It was wide open. When had they opened it? John made small quiet steps toward Sherlock and his line of vision. Once he was nearly beside the consulting detective, he chocked back a gasp. A lone bloodied figure stood in the hallway, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't anyone John or Sherlock knew. John examined the appearance of the stranger without moving.

Her eyes were a mustard yellow hue. It stood out against her pasty colored skin along with the glistening red blood on her face and hands. Her clothes were slightly torn like she'd been attacked by a vicious being and she had apparently lost a shoe.

Sherlock motioned his arm across John's chest to move him back. The two of them jumped, as two other zombies ran up the stairs. The zombie woman turned her attention from the ceiling to the two men. She gave a blood curdling scream and the trio of death ran at the door. Sherlock ran at them and John exclaimed.

The door was slammed and a fast pile of furniture was placed against it by John while Sherlock hurried with packing and texts.

"Sherlock will you get off your phone and help me?" John shouted while shoving the chair roughly against the door. The zombies banged against the door with frightening force. He heard other shrilled voices. "Shit, I think there's another!"

Sherlock continued his work: Clothes were shoved into two duffel bags along with compact food and toiletries. All the while, his long fingers had been madly dashing across the buttons of his phone and he strode across the flat, dodging every piece of furniture.

"How long do you suppose we'll be gone, John?" he asked. John rushed over to the television, pulled the cord out, and placed it on top of the table that had been stacked against the door along with chairs and a small book shelf.

"I don't know!" John replied. Sherlock pursed his lips, before heading to his chair propped against the door. John looked bewildered as Sherlock pulled off the cushion and brandished two sheathed stain-steeled blades.

"Why do you have _that_?" John asked.

He threw the sash attached to the sheath around his shoulder. "For out of the blue occasions such as this," he replied, grabbing the bags and throwing them into the bathroom. They had planned that as an escape room if the front door was inaccessible. "You have your gun, yes?"

John replied with a nod. The gun was in his possession and he'd secured bullets in his pocket for an easy access. As he ran up to the wobbly furniture pile to add the microwave, one of the zombie's must have thrown itself at the door because it shuddered. The furniture tried it's best to hold in place but the television flew off by the impact and made direct contact with John's skull.

The snarling intensified as predators gathered at their door. They shoved so violently that most of the furniture was sliding now. Sherlock dashed for John, who had collapsed. He dragged him into the bathroom while the infected pushed against the makeshift barricade. There, Sherlock would wait for John to wake up and discuss further plans.

John laid back, slightly drained while Sherlock looked out the window. Car's screeched past the flat, zombies hurrying after them and attacking poor pedestrians. He pursed his lips seeing blood spilt on the sidewalks. "This… could be worse." he said and John just stared.

"I disagree."

Sherlock looked away from the bloody view. "We could be dead." He offered. "Mrs. Hudson could be too. Thankfully, she went hiking with a hunter."

"Well I'm sure she'll be safe. What about us? It's not even one day into the apocalypse and I got hit with the telly!" the doctor said gruffly.

The moans were beginning to die down. Sherlock mused himself and gave the tub a kick. With anticipation, the creatures shrieked in reply and the clawing became more desperate. He hummed thoughtfully and John told him to quit it.

"It's interesting though. The telly was light enough to fly but adequately heavy to give you a concussion." Sherlock said with a chuckle. John got up and examined the wound in the mirror.

The wound wasn't too bad and had a pinkish blue color already. Over the bump was a simple purple band-aid with small grey cats on it. "Sherlock, what is this?" John asked, bewildered. He looked at the detective, who was staring at him, perplexed.

"You were bleeding so I put a band aid on the cut. I cleaned it if that's what you're worried about." He replied, kicking the wall and sending the weak moans and groans into ravenous calls again.

"Quit it, Sherlock. And I get that but why does the band-aid have _kittens_ on it?" he turned to inspect the first-aid box. "That's mine, right?"

"Yes."

"You replaced the better band-aids for ones with kittens?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. "What are you implying?" he asked.

"Sherlock, these band-aids are cheap. They won't stick for long and won't protect me from infection." John explained. "Why did you get rid of the good ones?"

"Why put on a super sticky flab of elastic on a wound when it's going to be ripped off eventually? Those things are absolute torture and constrict my skin. These," he pulled out the box of kitten bandages from his coat pocket ", are easier and better."

John shook his head as Sherlock kicked the wall again.

"_Why_ are you doing that?" he breathed with exasperation. They were stuck in the bathroom with a small window and flimsy door. The last thing John needed was a childish Sherlock angering the blood thirsty zombies.

"Because, John, they're idiots." He answered with a knowing smile. He rolled his eyes at the doctor's puzzled look.

"They're attracted to what their senses are telling them," he knocked on the door, the clawing intensifying so far that a bloody finger managed to puncture through the door. They both backed up as Sherlock continued. "Hear a noise, smell flesh, or see movement and I deduce they'll come running."

"So the good old-fashioned zombie type, then?" John asked, picking his pack up and slinging it over his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the door. A hand splintered through the door.

"Seems accurate." Sherlock replied dryly, gathering his clothes into the duffle bag and backing farther away from the door. Nearly five arms busted through, frantically swiping for a piece to eat. "Do you have enough ammunition for that gun?"

"Yep." John said, wasting no time to open the window and begin climbing out. An escape rope had already been fastened for a safe escape.

Sherlock climbed out as the tub skidded across the bathroom tile. Several of the infected tumbled after them but were too late. The consulting detective and his assistant were already down the street.


	2. Hospitals

"Take a left at the next street!" Sherlock said. They had been running for several blocks now with John constantly dodging desperate grabs for a meal. It wasn't easy when he had to keep pulling Sherlock out of their reach too. The damned consulting detective was preoccupied with his texting again.

"I'm going to chuck that bloody phone if you don't put it away!" he shouted angrily, shooting the skull of a zombie, whose teeth came too close for comfort. They were everywhere. Turn one corner to escape three of them, two more would pop up.

"Oh, that would be bold of you," Sherlock replied. The way his legs ran with such precision of each step, dodging an uplift of surfaces like curbs, or the obstacle of a corpse on the ground, made the impression that the phone was in no way slowing him down. "We can't have communication 'chucked' away from us at a time like this." He said, slamming his elbow into a zombie's face. John rolled his eyes. He was being too incredibly calm for this shit.

They made a turn for the street and were greeted by a motorcycle. John ran past it but was swiftly grabbed by the scruff of his jacket. "Sherlock! What are you doing?" he exclaimed. There were still corpses running after them. "Can you steer a motorcycle?" Sherlock asked quickly.

John looked around, zombies dangerously catching up to their halted steps. Sherlock's grip on him was stern though. Confident. "Yes but we don't have the…" Sherlock flicked a jumble keys that rested in the ignition of the motorbike. "… keys." he muttered.

John looked back to see more of the bloody creatures coming their way. With no time to waste they hopped on, John in the front and Sherlock wrapping his arms around the army doctor's waist from the back. The two duffle bags were safely strapped to the rear of the bike. He twisted the keys in the ignition and the bike roared to life. They sped off without a second's notice.

"This doesn't make any sense. There's a completely full tank of gas in this thing! Who leaves a motorbike with the keys in the ignition," John asked as they rode across the Waterloo Bridge. The bike darted around abandoned vehicles and 'slow walker' zombies. Sherlock, meanwhile, kept one arm around John while the other held his phone. "What do you make of it?" John asked him. Sherlock pursed his lips. He didn't hesitate.

"It was parked infront of a shop. Someone probably went inside to get supplies and thought it best to leave the keys for a quick escape. Not such a smart decision." John grimaced, horrified. _Oh God, we may have just killed someone_, he thought. Then he remembered the horde they had led to the shop. John imagined some poor bastard walking out with a heavy pack only to get attacked by the mob.

After several silent minutes, Sherlock broke it, "Oh for goodness' sake John, it just a theory." He looked at Sherlock through the mirror, surprised. Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes had torn themselves from the screen of his phone and were staring at him through the mirror as well. Sherlock shrugged. "I could be wrong." He muttered slowly. John looked towards the road, speeding up the bike as they crossed an empty intersection.

"Since when do you say you're wrong?" John asked, chuckling.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A guilty John Watson is boring," He managed. ", And I care more for a friend's well being than a strangers." John's smile wilted but he gave an understanding nod. '_Okay, I'll give you points for that'_ he thought. Sherlock was just trying to save their skins. Literally.

Sherlock's phone rang with the arrival of a text message. He read it and hummed with worry. "Mycroft?" John offered.

"Lestrade, asking where we're at." he corrected. "Mycroft hasn't replied."

"Since when?"

"Last month." He peered at Sherlock from the rear view mirror again, troubled by this news.

Mycroft was the government. The government was surely dealing with the Infection. Do the math and you find a busy or possibly dead Mycroft Holmes. Governments never lasted long in these situations like the movies. "I'm sure he's fine." John assured.

The consulting detective only grunted. Another text rang in. "Lestrade and Molly are at Barts."

"Do they need help?" John asked, anxious. The motorbike slowed, coordinates now unsure. "Take a left and we'll be there in five minutes."

As they sped through streets, Sherlock pulled out one of the swords from its sheath, taking fatal swipes at the heads of the walking dead. When John asked why, he said "Might as well clear an infestation if nothing else."

John nearly flinched at every hit the corpses took. "Careful not to get their blood on or in you." He warned. "Don't worry about me, just ride." Sherlock replied to his mate's nagging.

John was always first to put Sherlock's health into considerate worry since he rarely ate or slept much, but the Infection had turned the level up a notch. Eating and sleeping would be harder to come by now and they were going to need plenty of it to survive. John knew his job would be harder with Sherlock running around a zombie invasion.

They arrived at St. Barts with a not too friendly welcome. Zombies of every kind- limping and decayed from fresh and fast- surrounded the block Barts stood on. They pushed themselves against its windows, doors, and walls but their access was denied. Some had the great idea to smash the windows and jump inside. "I guess they can't think to open doors or windows." John commented. They jumped off the bike, Sherlock immediately taking down two zombies.

"Why are they even trying to get inside?" John shot the skulls of two zombies and punched out a woman whose jaw completely flew off from the impact. Sherlock put the jawless creature out its misery by plunging a blade through its head. "They're like animals. One sees or hears a piece of food and all instantly come for a bite." Sherlock answered.

Some of the zombies John and Sherlock fought were completely falling apart from their sockets. "Older bodies can't keep up," Sherlock sniffed, taking out another skull. ", People are raising from their death beds." This made John even wearier for the future. Not only were they going to have to kill bodies that existed now but take down people that had been deceased. "As long as there's enough brain matter and muscle, they're mobile." Sherlock only grunted in reply.

As John reloaded, a zombie came running at Sherlock from behind. "Move Sherlock!" he exclaimed. Sherlock spun around, blade raised. A gun shot exploded through the side of the zombie's head and it fell at Sherlock's feet. The two looked to where the shot was fired and spotted Lestrade at the bottom broken window of Barts. "Get inside!" he ordered, taking shots at the horde trying to push itself in.

John and Sherlock killed the small group of walking corpses trying to penetrate through the sturdy entrance and locked the door behind them. Sherlock received a text. "Head to the morgue." He said. John snapped his head towards the shrieks and moans emanating from several of the hospital rooms. Fear crept up his spine.

With their weapons ready, they sprinted across the hall. The first two were horribly rabid and John cursed himself when his first shot missed one of their heads. Sherlock took the bold idea and charged at them. Infected nurses, doctors, and patients of every size and gender ran for them as they tried to reach their destination. Some of them were difficult to kill for John since he knew most of them. But Sherlock had no disadvantage in this and took them down swiftly.

They made a right turn to head for the morgue doors and almost collided into another zombie. The impact was close enough to when John could see the creature's yellow eyes. Her hands grabbed John by the collar of his jacket and she screamed in delight of a meal. Acting quickly, he slammed the butt of his gun into the creature's head and it fell to the ground. Sherlock made the kill quick and they continued through the morgue door, slamming it shut behind them and panting.

Molly greeted them almost instantly, her white lab coat speckled with crimson colors and her usual long mousy brown hair, severed short near the bottom of her jaw line. She gave a weak smile. "It's good to see you two." She managed. Sherlock and John stared, still out of breath from their latest combat.

"You cut your hair." Sherlock said. Molly flushed with embarrassment. "Yeah, I was upstairs with Lestrade and one of the patients grabbed me by the hair. I would have been zombie food if Lestrade hadn't cut it." She explained, sighing. She touched her hair, wishing for its familiar length.

"It suits you." The consulting detective commented, making Molly smile. Lestrade burst through the door, making the three jump. He breathed, bushed, but smiled when he saw John and Sherlock.

"I'm glad you two are okay." He said, trying to regain regular breathing patterns.

"Well it was a close call. Of all the places to be, why did you choose a hospital full of the ill and dying?" John asked.

"It wasn't like I asked the Infection to spread at this time and place," the tired inspector replied. ", Just bad luck, I guess."

He sighed, and rested against the counter. Sherlock and John snapped their attention to the footsteps coming from the other room. Sally and Anderson walked in, sporting supplies and weaponry. "Lestrade, the other exit looks…" Sally's voice trailed off seeing them. Anderson looked peeved. "Oh for God's sake, you invited _them_?" he whined at the Detective Inspector. Lestrade squeezed the bridge of his nose, tired.

"Now don't start-"

"Sorry, I didn't know you needed an invitation during a zombie apocalypse." John cut in. "Does that mean we're party crashers?" Sherlock added. "Yes I do believe so. Looks like times of death are now called parties also." John was smiling, along with Sherlock. "Well that's nice, makes it cheerier if you ask me."

"Will you two stop acting like children? How can you even joke at a time like this?" Sally cut them off angrily.

Molly held up a coffee pot and said, "Anyone thirsty?" trying to change the subject. John got the hint and nodded, helping her with the mugs. Sherlock peered through the window. "So…when do we head out?"


End file.
